WHEN WE TALK OF OLD AGE, two figures in literature come to mind. One is Santiago of Hemingway’s iconic Old Man and The Sea. Santiago, an aged Cuban battered by misfortune and the elements, embarks on a titanic struggle in the Gulf Stream to capture the marlin. It is a fight that takes a lot out of him and the goal is not just the physical act of triumphant capture but something higher, a superhuman leap to the unknown, a mystic journey, as it were. It is tragic that the creator of this immortal, unvanquished protagonist should choose to die by his own hands instead of confronting the demons that kept haunting him.

In contrast is the figure of Doctor Alexandre Manette in Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. Doctor Manette is the old, feeble victim of subverted justice, incarcerated in the Bastille, his memory gone, his hair grey with shock and age, ceaselessly hammering and stitching shoes as the world revolves and changes outside his dim prison cell. The gentle doctor and his abject helplessness heightens the tyranny of that age close to the French revolution, and underlines how fate can conspire to bring terror and ruin with a callous disregard for the innocence and goodness of the victim.

Cut to the present and we come across the same two prototypes, perhaps in less melodramatic frames – one pro-active, fighting destiny, and the other passive, fatalistic. Let me give two examples. I have known Lakhimi Baruah for many years and have admired her grace and chutzpah. Her husband had passed away years ago and her two sons are living away from her. But Lakhimi Baruah is not one to feel sorry for herself and wallow in misery.

She leads an independent life, living in style in her beautiful Kharghuli home, overseeing the planting of flower bulbs in her exquisite garden and penning nostalgia-laden pieces for this newspaper, full of quaint details about tea garden parties, life in opulent bungalows and the old world rhythm of life lived in leisure and the pursuit of the arts. She regards her grandchildren as peers and refuses to reveal her age to them. Her English friends of her tea garden years taught her to be young at heart. One can’t avoid age, she says, but one can determine how life can be lived. Once a year she travels abroad to be with her son and his family. She also has a fulfilling pursuit, taking care of the floral arrangements in her doctor son’s pathology clinic. Recovering from a recent illness, she looked more glamorous than ever, her snow white hair framed like a halo around her face, her trademark danglers in place, along with the zest for life that allows her to talk of fashion trends with the eagerness of a teeny-bopper. It is as if this glam lady, who drives along the winding roads of Kharghuli with what can only be described as daredevil nonchalance, has found the secret to being complete and fulfilled at this phase of her life.

Sadly, at the other end of the spectrum, is Kiran Chowdhury (name changed on request). In her mid-eighties, Kiran Chowdhury has everything going against her. Her late husband did not leave behind any will, and her three sons has taken over the house, pushing her to a tiny, damp room. She is totally dependent on her sons, and her daughters-in-law actively connive to deny her even the basic needs and medical care. Neighbours are in the know that this helpless matriarch is slowly being starved to death, but are powerless to help. Then providence intervenes in the form of a grandniece, who, shocked and indignant, promptly files a case in the Women’s Commission at Guwahati. The sons and their old, ailing mother appear in court, and the sons pledge to pay a lump sum every month for maintenance. The old woman is today financially a bit better off, but the mental torture by her own family continues, and no court can enforce filial love. The difference between the two is perhaps not only greater awareness and better education evident in Lakhimi Baruah’s case, but having her own money has made Baruah empowered to lead her life the way she wants to.

But old age, in its most evolved stage, is not about the creature comforts and the preservation of the self in a narrow, selfish ambit. I realise this as I walk in what must be the one of the most beautiful parts of the city. All around me is a velvet lawn, moist with the monsoon rain. There is a smooth, gravel walkabout and immaculately tended flower beds and shrubs. Children scramble about, squealing and laughing, careening down the banana slides and hurling up into the sky in the swings. Ornate lights softly illuminate this park as soothing music plays from speakers. It is as if some magician has conjured up this perfect vision of heaven. But it is the work of men and women, all of them having reached the winter of their lives, but keen to create this perfect haven where the old and young can partake of the beauty of Nature and breathe the pure air. On the circular stage at one end of this park at Narikalbasti, I sit in a semicircle with fifteen senior citizens, all male, who have gathered here to give me a glimpse of their lives. There are two IAS officers among them, top bureaucrats, men who have lived all their working lives wielding power and influence, but were now as carefree as schoolboys playing truant. Their ages ranged from eighty-six to the early sixties, and they laughingly admit that after a certain age, all become equals. They are all members, along with their spouses, of this informal club which meets in the Narikalbasti park every day. But its bigger and earlier avatar is the Geetanagar Milan Sangha. As BK Barua, Jitendranath Sharma, AK Dutta, Mridul Bezbaruah, Mahesh Bhuyan, AN Bhattacharjee, Bharat Das sat and listened, Gopal Chandra Goswami, the club’s founder president, began: “Some of us got together twenty-two years ago and planned for a recreational centre to meet the needs of senior citizens. We began by meeting on Fridays and spouses automatically became members. We read out poems and stories we had penned, sang songs and invited specialists to talk on certain subjects. We also had Housie and games regularly. We got organised as time went by, with our own constitution, subscription fees and annual general meeting. Somehow, since all our members are well-off, we have been considered rather elitist and senior citizens of more straitened circumstances hesitate to join our club, the Geetanagar Milan Sangha. We also have a ladies club – Gitoshri Sangha, whose members meet every Wednesday.”

All these gentlemen are vociferous in their claims that they did not feel old and feeble. In fact, one could note that they share the informal bonhomie and humour usually thought to be reserved for the very young. Among them, octogenarian Mahesh Bhuyan walks more than six kilometres every day. Bhuyan has a photographic memory and his forte is being able to trace the family tree of almost everyone he meets, including his former students. Bharat Das has married off his three daughters, but misses his wife who passed away some time back. His antidote to loneliness is spending time with his friends here. Having recently undergone bypass surgery, it is a daily struggle to live with his grief and his illness, but he manages as well as he can.

BK Barua believes that being a strict disciplinarian is what has helped him cope with the uncertainties of old age. He carries out all activities with clockwork precision and is hard on himself, not allowing the vagaries of old age upset his daily routine. Jogen Borah, who retired as a Sessions Judge this year, considers his travels with his wife the best part of retirement. He prefers to have bland, boiled food, and regular brisk daily walks to keep himself healthy and active. JK Dutta considers old age to be the golden period of one’s life and loves to get off the beaten trail, with trips to Manasarovar and remote flower filled valleys in the Himalayan foothills. He misses his departed wife, especially when he is alone at night or goes to a wedding and sees other men escorting their wives. But he has learned to count his blessings and has accepted his loss with fortitude. PK Das has his own mantra for a hassle-free old age. Simply put, it is a positive attitude, yoga, pranayam, refusal to brood over any problems and the ability to look forward with a mixture of pragmatism and idealism.

Gopal Goswami confesses he knew he had become old when he could no more stand on one foot. He had used a shovel for work in his garden for nearly half a century, but now it is a daunting challenge. He fears being bedridden and unable to do his own work. Though the fear of death doesn’t haunt him, he says all senior citizens must have their bank papers, property documents and wills in order. Husbands should explain all legal matters of succession to their wives.

Mridul Bezbaruah says one should move in a new direction after retirement and join social groups to avoid isolation. Jitendranath Sharma still has his aged father residing with him and that perhaps helps him to feel he is not old enough.

Gopal Goswami concludes, “The problem in India is that parents invest too much on their children’s education and future, but too less on themselves. More often than not, these very children are not willing to look after them in their old age. This causes a lot of heartache and material crisis. People should plan for their old age with adequate savings, medical insurance, etc, so that they can lead a quality life.”

As I let myself out of the gates, the gentlemen quietly disperse in the gathering darkness, back to the bosom of their homes and families. There is a serenity about them that I miss in the restless crowds and honking cars of the city roads. That tranquillity assures me that walking towards the sunset is nothing to be feared or avoided, but just a new chapter of life.

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Indrani Raimedhi